


Red Stars and Black Ice

by dreamlordmorpheus



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Winter Soldier, Angst, Assassin Grantaire, Brainwashing, Crossover, M/M, Winter Soldier Grantaire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlordmorpheus/pseuds/dreamlordmorpheus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grantaire?"<br/>"Who the hell is Grantaire?"</p>
<p>In which the anti-SHIELD insurgent leader Enjolras meets the elite HYDRA assassin R, and discovers that this is not their first encounter, even if R denies it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ice

He doesn’t have a name, doesn’t need one. The HYDRA agents call him “the asset” behind his back, and they don’t call him anything to his face. The intelligence community has a code name for him; they call him “R”, after the red letter that is etched into his metal shoulder. That’s the closest thing he has to a name; the name that’s never spoken aloud, only whispered in tones of fear and awe. When the Mission requires an alias, he goes by “Jean”, which almost amuses him for some unrecallable reason. 

There’s a lot that he can’t recall - a lot of memories of past Missions that have been scrambled and scratched by cryofreeze and electric shocks. Sometimes he even thinks he might have memories from before the Missions, before HYDRA, but thinking about that brings strange emotions to the surface that he can’t name, so he doesn’t. He prefers to let them remain under layers and layers of ice. 

R doesn’t mind the cryofreeze, though. When they put him on ice, it’s the only way he can escape the jangling discord inside his head between Missions. Sometimes, when they still need him, they put him in a cell and let him sleep instead of freezing him.

He hates that, hates how the jagged shards of memory inside his head grow stronger in sleep, the flashes of blonde hair and red fabric, and falling, always falling. They melt away the instant he wakes up, but the feeling of familiarity and loss doesn’t. He hates that, too. R doesn’t feel; the only emotion he needs is the driving force that keeps him on a Mission, and the brief rush of satisfaction when it’s successfully completed. There is no room for feelings inside him, only for cold, so he shoves them down and tries not to sleep, wary of his own subconscious, wary of his dreams. 

That’s the nice thing about being frozen. You don’t dream in cryofreeze.

It never lasts though. This time, when they thaw him out, they find that the motor in his bionic arm has stopped running, a result of sloppy maintenance. The first thing R is aware of is the burning, icy pain where the cold metal bites into his flesh. He screams like he’s being tortured (and certainly HYDRA knows what that sounds like) and almost strangles an orderly with his good arm before they sedate him. 

After that, as he sits in the chair, restraints around his human arm and a group of mechanics around the other one, they give him a Mission and a Target, and that’s enough to finally wrench his mind out of the blurry cold of cryofreeze. The man talks on and on about the Target, who is apparently the leader of a prominent revolutionary group, but R doesn’t listen. Instead, he focuses on the photograph he’s been given, etching the blonde curls and marble skin into his mind. He is given a name as well, something that begins with an “E”, a name that tugs at the very edges of his consciousness, but he quickly forgets it. The Target is not a person, only a living-breathing-melting destination for a bullet. In this way, they are alike. R is not a person either, only a living-breathing-freezing asset, only a weapon.

With this in mind, he is released from his restraints, given a gun, and rises to don the mask and bulletproof vest he wears for Missions. The mask catches and snags on strands of his dark, curly hair, but he yanks it free, ignoring the sharp jab of pain in his scalp. Soon the Target will be dead, and soon the only thing he can feel will be the icy silence of cryofreeze.


	2. Flood

The Target is easy to spot. He’s standing on an elevated platform in front of a large crowd, gesturing angrily and shouting something about how SHIELD is purposefully withholding information from the people. From his vantage point atop a nearby building, R leans forward, observing. 

The photograph he’d been given of the Target had led him to expect a typical politician’s son - sophisticated, aloof, and altogether tedious. He’d wondered, briefly, why HYDRA considered him a threat, but had dismissed the thought. He didn’t need to know why a Mission had been assigned to complete it, and besides, weapons don’t have opinions. Now, seeing the Target in the flesh for the first time, R finally understands why HYDRA wanted him eliminated. 

The Target is of slight build, with curly blond hair, blue eyes, and features like a Greek statue. All these are details R knows from the photograph, but no picture could ever capture the passion and purpose burning within the man. His eyes smoulder with idealistic fervor and conviction, his anger giving him a much larger presence in his deep red jacket than his size would suggest. The red color suits him, R thinks, in that it embodies his fury and passion. 

The thought takes R off guard - he is not given to metaphorical speculation and the only way a red jacket could be relevant to the Mission is to disguise bloodstains - and he shakes his head to get rid of it. Too late, he realizes his mistake - his movement has been seen by one of the lieutenants of the Target. Someone screams “Enjolras!” and R’s world explodes.

The name pierces his mind like a bullet, and he doubles over instinctively. It’s not so much the name that hurts, but the desperate way it’s screamed that evokes a sudden, sharp spike of memory. 

_He’s on a train, but he doesn’t know why._

_The Target is with him. The side of the train gapes open, the mountainside flashing by in a black-and-white blur of rock and snow. There is a flash of light, a sudden pain in his left arm, and the force of what he now realizes is a bullet carries him backwards and leaves him clinging to a metal support on the outside of the train. The Target lunges for him, hand reaching desperately. “Enjolras!” somebody screams, voice strangled with fear, and R realizes that the voice is his and the Target is Enjolras. He reaches back, goes to grasp Enjolras’ hand, but the second their fingers brush the metal bar supporting him gives way with a screech -_

_\- and he is falling, falling, falling, hand still extended, still reaching into thin air as he screams, his eyes closing on the grotesque image of Enjolras yelling in anguish -_

R gasps, choking, as the rooftop forms around him once more and the memory wanes. It _hurts_ inside his head, something like fire burning through all the layers of ice that keep him safe. He wishes, not for the first time, for the relative comfort of cryofreeze. Even the static blankness of a mindwipe would be better than the memories shrieking inside his head, hundreds of people he doesn’t know laughing and shouting and crying behind his eyes. He hunches over, thinks _Mission_ and _Target_ and _Asset_ until he can feel the ice creeping back and manages to regain some semblance of control. 

R is still shaking slightly, but his hands are calm as he straightens, casting a glance over the panicked crowd below. The Mission isn’t lost yet, he can still salvage it, can still bring down Enjolras - the Target - if he moves quickly. The Target is still there, now dead center in the crowd and instantly visible in his red jacket as he shouts commands to the people around him. His voice is afraid - not for himself, R realizes, but for his friends and the innocent people in the crowd.

Although R knows he could easily shoot the Target from his position on the roof, something compels him to lower his gun and jump from the rooftop to the ground, bending his knees to absorb the shock of landing directly on the concrete. What is left of the crowd scatters, screaming, until only a few are left. 

The Target is holding a small handgun now, fingers clenched white around the grip. It is painfully obvious that he has never held a gun - his hand shakes as he points it at R. Years of experience have taught R that people who hold a gun like that are the dangerous ones, more likely to be erratic. 

The look in Enjolras’ eyes, however, shocks him.

R has learned to expect desperation, fear, anything but the steely determination he is now facing. Enjolras, he realizes, is not afraid of him. He starts to realize that he’s seen this look on Enjolras’ face hundreds of times before, but then the thin marble fingers curl around the trigger and, with a horrible clang of metal on metal drowning out even the shot, a bullet ricochets off R’s metal arm, knocking him to the side.

If R was more human, perhaps he would curse himself for being distracted by memory, but as it is he merely throws himself to the ground, feeling the second shot narrowly miss his head. Enjolras may have conviction and passion, but he does not have R’s training, and the next shots misses as well as R spins and dodges with fluid grace. Seeing the shots miss, Enjolras - the Target - falters, and R covers the space between them in a single, effortless stride. He seizes the gun with his human hand, jerking it to the side, into the Target’s stomach, and removing himself from the line of fire. Even as he does this, his metal hand is already moving and he wraps his fingers under the barrel of the gun. The metal fist twists sharply, breaking the two fingers that Enjolras - _the Target_ \- still has in the trigger guard and disarming him. 

Enjolras drops, screaming in pain and cradling his broken fingers. Seeing the look of pain on his face, R almost falters, but recovers quickly, planting his knee in Enjolras’ chest and wrapping his metal fingers around the column of his throat. As R cuts off his air supply, Enjolras struggles, lashing out with his left hand and knocking R’s mask off. 

The look of stunned recognition on Enjolras’ face hits R like a physical blow and sends him stumbling up and away. Enjolras pushes himself up with his good hand and stares at R in shock. 

“Grantaire?” His voice is rough and shaking with something that might be hope. 

“Who the hell is Grantaire?” R spits the words out, desperately trying to stem the flood of memory that threatens to overwhelm him. He has the sickening feeling that he knows who Grantaire is, and he doesn’t want to know. He holds Enjolras’ shocked gaze for a second longer, then turns and flees.

He can’t think, can’t move, can’t breathe, so he staggers into the nearest alley and collapses, curling into a ball. R is struggling to stay afloat, the ice in his mind melting and pulling him under. He aches for the emptiness of cryofreeze and prays the HYDRA agents will find him soon before he drowns in the tides that rise in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The nifty disarming move R uses on Enjolras is an actual Krav Maga technique. Krav Maga is a style developed to incapacitate an opponent in the shortest amount of time and is known to be highly effective, so I felt it went with R's background, as he's been designed for agression and maximum damage. (I've had that move done on me and you definitely don't want to have any body part in the trigger guard - Enj is lucky he still has all his fingers)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely Tumblr user superwholockian-since-1832! (you should totally go follow her) I'm dreamlordmorpheus on Tumblr as well if you want to come say hi or if you have any questions or advice or if you want to bug me because I'm not updating. :)


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